


The Cost of Duty

by Huggle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Illya Whump, M/M, Original Character Death(s), protective napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8188223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: It was going to happen eventually.  Illya knew this, but all the same it is too much for him to bear.  Fortunately, he does not have to bear it alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an MFU prompt that requested Illya being faced with a conflict of loyalties between UNCLE and the KGB, and the outcome. One shot, if you spot any errors, please let me know.

He doesn’t answer the door to the knock, but it makes no difference anyway.

Solo lets himself in, closes the door behind him, puts away his lock pick. He stands and he stares and Illya finds himself wishing he would say something or go. Either would be better than being studied, analysed.

Picked apart.

Solo does neither. As always, he finds a third option. He approaches, slowly but not with undue caution. Illya has to look up once the American is standing over him, and can see in the other man’s face what he must look like.

“Come on, Peril,” Solo says. 

Illya makes no move or response, doesn’t know what is expected of him. That is a first – usually he has sacrosanct orders which make his duty clear. But these past two days, duty has almost torn him apart.

No, not almost – it has. He is ripped open and bleeding, and he does not know what to do to fix it. Or even if he wants to be fixed.

Solo reaches down to take his hands and for the first time Illya sees the blood. It’s dried in the lines of his hands, caked around and under his fingernails. Streaks of it are visible under his dress shirt and the once white cuffs and sleeves are white no more.

He doesn’t feel the pain start until Solo encourages him to his feet, but he has experienced pain before. It drains him, but it won’t defeat him. Still, he lets Solo guide him to the bathroom, and stands there watching as the shower is turned on, the water allowed to run until steam billows around them.

Solo strips first, and then helps Illya do the same. Helps is perhaps understating it – he does most of the work, coaxing Illya out of his shirt, his pants. Making him kick off his shoes, and then bending to remove his socks. The underwear comes last, and Solo steps back to study him once again.

He shakes his head. Illya feels his temper edge roughly. Yes, he knows what the American sees – he does not need his judgement.

But Solo forestalls his anger by reaching up and cupping his hand at the back of Illya’s neck. He gently urges him forward until he can press a light kiss to his forehead.

“Get under the water,” he says, and Illya does.

Solo washes him, carefully, thoroughly, and Illya knows he is taking note of every scrape and bruise, of the possibly cracked ribs. He might have a sprained ankle, but if he does it is the least of his injuries.

Once done, he is led out of the shower, and stands still while Solo towels him dry.

“Painkillers,” Solo says. “Then bed.”

He doesn’t have it in him to argue. And there is no other mission, or he would have been summoned back to UNCLE. Solo would have come with plane tickets, not a kindness that Illya doesn’t understand and certainly doesn’t deserve.

But all the same he takes the pills foisted on him, and the glass of liquor to wash them down, and lets Solo dress him in a pair of pyjama pants which came from who knows where. They are four inches or so too short, that he does know.

Solo dresses similarly, and then they are under the covers, and Illya wishes the drugs and the alcohol would begin to affect him. He is more than ready to feel nothing, even if it is the coward’s way.

“Illya,” Solo says.

He can’t reply – he doesn’t know what he wants to say, or if he wants to say anything at all. But he doesn’t fight, doesn’t protest as Solo tugs him over. Carefully, but insistent, and brings Illya’s head to rest over his heart. Wraps arms around him that are strong enough to hold him in check, to hold him together.

“A man cannot have two masters,” Illya says, and is surprised that his voice sounds far steadier than he feels.

Solo sighs, and gently runs his fingers through Illya’s hair.

**  
 _  
He catches up to Yuri in the gents’ bathroom, purposefully waiting until the intermission is almost over. By now most of the patrons will have returned to their seats. They are unlikely to be disturbed._

_And this will be over quickly._

_“Illya,” Yuri says. He doesn’t sound surprised, but Illya knows that he is. Yuri is good; he is better._

_Tonight, he will have to prove it._

_“I’m sorry,” he says._

_Yuri frowns. Perhaps he genuinely doesn’t understand, or perhaps he is feigning ignorance._

_When he tries to run past him, Illya knows it was the latter. But that too is a ploy – he hopes for Illya to make a grab at him, has a blade already in his hand that will come up and slice Illya open from navel to ribs._

_Illya lets him pass and then kicks the knife from his hand. He comes up tight behind Yuri, locks an arm under his chin, and clamps his free hand around the wrist._

_Yuri does not go quietly. His struggles drive them back, almost overbalancing them. A mirror on the wall cracks on impact, and a moment later Illya feels blood begin to run warm beneath his jacket._

_The shard of glass Yuri has grabbed from the sink comes up again, Yuri striking out blindly this time. Even so, it almost takes out his eye, and forces him to let go. Yuri flies from him, coughing as air whoops back into his lungs. He holds the shard like a knife, ready and lethal._

_“Illya,” he says. “What have they done to you?”_

_Illya rushes him, gets under the overhand swing that Yuri hopes to finish him with and pins his friend’s hand to the wall. His fingers find pressure points around Yuri’s jaw, and he squeezes. Yuri groans and struggles. He bites down on his tongue, and blood bubbles and froths on his lips. A rough exhalation sprays Illya with specks of red._

_He keeps up the pressure until the pulse beneath his fingers stills, and then a moment longer._

_When it is done, he puts Yuri’s body in the end cubicle, and uses a pick to slide the lock home from the other side. It may be minutes before he is discovered; it might be the rest of the performance._

_He hears the orchestra begin playing the opening of the second half, knows that soon the patrons will be rapt by the tragedy of Violetta’s approaching fate. Still, there will be ushers, and guards – the chancellor is safe now, at least from Yuri, but his men will be prowling._

_But Illya has an exit, already planned and secured._

_He takes a moment – a risk, but necessary – to wipe the blood from his face. People look at the face first, and he will not get far in a death mask._

_He doesn’t look back as he leaves the bathroom, stays focused and intent as he finds his way to the back stairs, down almost to the stage and then leaves through the fire exit._

_No one questions him, no one sees him, and then he disappears into the night.  
_


End file.
